


FEEL BETTER SOON FRIEND!!!!

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Airplanes, Fever, Gen, Sick Character, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, Tim Stoker Lives (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27016051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: my good friend is sick so i wrote them this fic!! the prompt: Okay for prompts...I was looking through that whumptober alternate prompts list and saw “airport” on day 21. Maybe (for reasons unknown or perhaps unspecified) Tim and Jon (and Martin? up to you) are flying somewhere together, and Jon does NOT like to fly. And Jon is so anxious about it that he doesn’t even realize he’s gotten sick. But boy does he realize it once he gets on the plane! (If you don’t like this there is no pressure at all!
Comments: 7
Kudos: 115





	FEEL BETTER SOON FRIEND!!!!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celosiaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/gifts).



While Tim is still working out whether he feels sympathetic towards Jon’s horrid experiences being marked by the Entities, one thing he does know for sure is that he doesn’t envy them. 

Jon knows they make Tim uncomfortable, make him think of a time both of them have had to forgive and forget in order to salvage their friendship after everything that’s happened. That’s why, on their first trip, when he’d snapped at Tim about his anxieties related to flying being something Tim doesn’t and couldn’t understand, he’d felt a little guilty about it, as, when pressed about it, he’d had to explain his mark by the Vast. 

It had almost come out like a statement: almost. Tim had stopped him, ensured Jon chose words and a cadence that wouldn’t feed the Eye, as he listened to the extremely abridged version of his experience with Mike Crew, the feeling of falling from impossible heights, the dread of knowing the ground was somewhere he could not reach and just hoping, wishing he’d meet it, even if it killed him. Tim had said he was sorry, felt guilty for teasing him, and ordered a whiskey on the plane before sleeping through the entire trip. Jon had promised himself he’d never bring it up again, if he could help it. 

Their trip was short but exhausting, and this morning, Jon had woken up in their shared hotel room feeling drained and weary. A stress headache had already begun pounding behind his eyes even before they’d arrived at the airport, and now that the plane has actually taken off, it’s nearly impossible to think about anything else. Tim is chattering away, but Jon can’t focus on anything he’s saying, pressing himself into the window and closing his eyes. When Tim notices, he laughs a little. 

“If you want to sleep, you know, you can just tell me to be quiet,” he says, and Jon shakes his head. 

“No, I’m—don’t stop talking. I could use the distraction, honestly.” 

Tim’s face is some combination of concerned and steely. “Still nervous?” he asks, and Jon shakes his head. 

“A bit,” he admits, “but mostly, I’ve just got a headache.” 

For obvious reasons, Jon is no stranger to tension headaches after long days pouring over paperwork at a desk. Tim’s seen him work through a lot of them, and something about this one seems different. Perhaps it’s just the nerves dulling his energy, but he seems drained, spacey. 

“You think the cabin pressure is bothering you?” he asks, and Jon shrugs, not opening his eyes. 

“I woke up with it,” he confesses, “but it’s certainly not helping.” 

“I think I might still have paracetamol in my carry-on, if you need it,” Tim offers, fully expecting Jon to turn down the offer, and is totally shocked when he hesitates. 

“Maybe,” he concedes. Hm. That can’t be a good thing. 

“Sure.” Tim is up on his feet immediately, apologizing to the older woman in the aisle seat and rifling blindly through the storage space for his small bag, hoping he’s not mistaken. He rummages through until he finds the bottle, allowing himself a moment of relief before he shakes it, disappointment replacing the relief when only one pill rattles around inside. 

Damn. Shouldn’t have taken so many for the muscle he’d pulled working out in the hotel gym.

“Sorry,” he apologizes as he presses the single pill into Jon’s palm, “I thought I had more.” 

Jon mutters a “thanks” and leans his head back against the seat regardless. His face is pale and impossible to read, expressing no emotion at all and instead just looking tired and ill. 

Tim can’t help but feel sorry for him. He’s known Jon long enough to know all the different faces his discomfort took: there was the crabby, snippy Jon that meant his mind felt fine but his body hurt enough to slow him down; the sensitive, slightly whiny, overly-apologetic Jon that meant he was running a fever; the Jon who wanted to pretend that everything was fine and ended up giving himself away by trying too hard. More dangerous than any of them, however, was the character he appeared to be falling into, now: the sort of candid, honest one who felt too tired and miserable to front or to complain. Tim has only seen this a handful of times: once in research, hit hard with the flu; again, about a month after he’d been promoted and had forgotten to eat or drink anything for over a day and ended up fainting while Elias was holding a meeting; and a third time after the worms, on one of their first days back to work: one of the worm scars had been deeper than the doctors had thought and ended up infecting the bone of his left shin. That one had been the worst: Tim had known something was off the day before, then taken a personal day to rush over to his flat when Jon was a no-call no-show, only to find him semiconscious and unable to walk, requiring weeks of IV antibiotics through a PICC line and resulting in the permanent use of a cane. What he’d learned from it, all of it, was that Jon doesn’t readily show vulnerability, and if he’s choosing to do so, it’s rarely a display of trust and more often a physical inability to mask it. 

Jon shifts so he’s no longer pressed against the window and instead leaning toward Tim, eyes still shut. 

“What game are you playing?” he asks before Tim even decides to do so. However, since Jon seems like he’s gearing up to fall asleep again, he supposes he might as well. 

“I brought Pokemon and Harvest Moon. Preferences, if you’re planning on watching?” 

Jon smiles. “Harvest Moon. I like the cows.” 

Jon has always liked to watch Tim play video games and Tim has always liked to let Jon watch him play video games. It’s something he and Danny used to do together, and it always makes him feel some kind of way to have Jon do the same. 

He’s sure Jon knows this, too, because he uses this to his advantage and rests his head against Tim’s shoulder. If asked, Tim is sure he’ll say it’s so he can see the screen, so he doesn’t ask. This close, he can feel Jon shaking against him, and his heart clenches a little. He shrugs off his bomber jacket and sets it over Jon, ignoring his protests. 

“You’re shivering,” he says simply, and that’s enough of an explanation, now. Months ago, it wouldn’t have been. The existence of Jon’s suffering would have in no way explained Tim’s involvement in its relief. For a long time, Martin had been the only person in Jon’s life who cared, and even then, Jon suspected that was mostly instinct. He’s still adjusting to being comforted on purpose, to someone caring by choice. Tim hesitates. “You ARE shivering, right? Or...?” 

Jon shakes his head. “No, not--it’s not nerves,” he replies. “This plane is freezing.” Tim looks a bit puzzled, but leaves it be. Jon is always cold, so this shouldn’t be surprising. 

But. 

Jon is always cold, so he’s already wearing a thick jumper and a cardigan on top of that, and now, even with Tim’s jacket, his teeth are chattering. He rarely complains, and Tim has a sinking feeling that something else is going on.    
It takes about 20 minutes of Jon leaning against him like this for Tim to start to sweat, and while he’s at first willing to chalk that up to sitting in close quarters, one poorly-timed shiver from Jon makes it apparent. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Tim asks. Jon blinks. He hadn’t been paying attention to the game, after all. “You feel kind of warm.” 

After a moment of self-reflection, all Jon comes up with is a half-hearted shrug. “I think I’m just jet-lagged,” he tries, but Tim shakes his head, pressing one hand to Jon’s cheek with a wince. 

“I don’t think so, boss,” he laments. “You’re running hot.”

“You’re a doctor, now, are you?” Jon bites. “I’m fine.” 

“I may not be a doctor, but I’ve touched enough bodies to—” 

“Fine,” Jon curtails, “will you spare me the rest of that thought if I admit I’m nauseous?” 

Tim cracks a smile. “A rain check,” he offers, then softens. “When did you start feeling sick?” 

He seems to genuinely have to think about that, because he’s a mess. “Been feeling run down for a few days, now, I suppose,” he says. “I assumed it was just from traveling.” 

“Leave it to you to be that dense,” Tim rolls his eyes. “Damn. I wish you’d told me this morning. We could have gotten you something at the terminal.” 

“I’ll survive,” Jon argues. “Mostly, I’m just achy. And cold.” 

“Want me to ask around for some paracetamol? There’s at least three older mothers on this plane that I’ve seen, and I guarantee at least one of them carries a first aid bag.” 

“God, no,” Jon rejects, mortified simply by the idea of it. “I’m fine. It’s not that long a trip.” 

Tim ponders for a moment. “Come to think of it, why didn’t you bring a carry-on? You’ve got chronic pain. I’ve never seen you travel without it.” 

That’s true: Jon rarely goes on trips longer than two hours without, at the very least, a bottle of paracetamol and his rescue painkillers. For a trip like this, Tim knows Martin wouldn’t have let him leave the country without every prescription he has (with an advance on any he may be running low on) plus over the counter stuff, lidocaine balm, his TENS unit. 

“Ah, you—er remember when the airline called you to say they lost a bag or two?” 

Tim frowns. “I thought we figured out that it was my gym bag.” 

Jon’s smile is guilty. “It was two.” 

“You might have mentioned something!” Tim scolds. “Really, Jon. We could have gone to a shop and gotten a few supplies. What would Martin say?”

“I would prefer he… didn’t find out.” That makes sense. Knowing that Jon isn’t taking care of himself would disappoint Martin, and that’s Jon’s least favorite thing to do. 

“I think he’s gonna know, boss. He’s picking us up from the airport, remember?” Not to mention, there’s no point in hiding it: Martin is perceptive and Jon is a bad liar. 

“Burn that bridge when I get to it, I suppose.” 

Tim nods. “Fair enough.” A sigh. “I’m going to ask for a cup of tea for you. Warm you up, keep you hydrated. If you see the flight attendant, let me know.”

As Tim turns his attention, mercifully, once more toward his game, Jon shuts his eyes. 

He doesn’t fully fall asleep, and after about half an hour, he finally reaches out for Tim’s arm and rests his hand atop it. 

“Jon?” he calls, starting to stand, assuming he’s trying to get his attention because he feels ill, but Jon shakes his head. 

“Sorry,” Jon apologizes reflexively, moving to pull his hand away. “Just… everything’s kind of spinning. I can stop—”

“No,” Tim curtails, “no; I was just making sure you’re alright.” Tim takes his hand once more and squeezes, anchoring him tightly. With his free hand, he brushes back Jon’s hair and feels his forehead, sighing. “I don’t think the paracetamol brought down your fever at all.” 

Jon shrugs. “It’s fine.” 

Once more, Tim checks his phone for the time: only about two more hours before they land, and he can get Jon back to London, get some actual medicine in him, have him eat something and sleep in a familiar bed where he can get some real rest. 

Until then, he just hopes Jon can sleep through the rest of the ride. 

Unfortunately, Jon does wake three more times. The first is because his back and leg hurt so badly from sitting up that he wakes close to tears. He tries to suck it up, to breathe through it, but Tim sees through that immediately, and does his best to find a more comfortable position where Jon can half-curl up and half-lie across Tim’s lap. His fevered skin is too sensitive for Tim to do anything for the knots, but just being able to lie down seems to help, and Jon falls asleep once more. 

The second is when a baby begins crying in the row in front of them. Jon doesn’t complain about it, and Tim knows it’s nobody’s fault, but he still feels irritated on Jon’s behalf. It takes him a long time to fall asleep again. 

The third time, he wakes up with a jolt, startled by a nightmare. He’s so out of it that Tim wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if he doesn’t remember it later, but he soothes him, all the same, stroking his hair and whispering calming things to him until he’s relaxed enough to drift back into unconsciousness. 

When the plane finally lands, Jon wakes again, this time to the applause of several white passengers. 

“Good morning,” Tim greets. Jon shoves the heel of one hand against his eye socket with a groan, and Tim can’t help but laugh. “We’re landing, now. Almost home.” 

Jon nods. “God, did I sleep through the whole flight? How am I still so tired?” 

“It’s your natural state of existence,” Tim retorts. “If you were functioning on anything more than 30% of your full capacity, I think we’d all be fucked.” Jon shivers again, and the teasing becomes less fun. “Not to mention, the flu will do that to you.” 

He groans. “I hate planes. I always end up catching something.” 

All Tim can really do, at least until they land, is squeeze Jon’s shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “Almost home,” he repeats. The promise of comfort will just have to be enough for now.


End file.
